Her finger
points a twining route east,
following neon highlighter
across roads
too small to name.

He had wanted
to go west
into the impossible.

A shift-torqued
firestorm of hydrocarbons.
He accelerates
towards the smell of water.
It’s not an ocean, she says. It’s a lake.
No, he says, it is
incalculable. A dream I had.

He passes
into calm. On the smooth face
of the roadway
he tracks a bright line
to its conclusion, the map

This speed,
approaches a thing
without warning,

About David

Prone to musing and to being prone. Father to two, writer, engineer.
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